t.m.i.

So I came across this little dialogue I wrote last year. Or rather I should say transcribed. It's just something I jotted down after a conversation I had with my very pregnant friend Nicole. It's somewhat indicative of the many horrifying and wonderful chats I've had with pregnant friends over the years. Enjoy.

Nicole: Hey, I'm not sure I feel up to dinner tonight.

Me: That's okay. Are you feeling alright?

[Pay attention to the use of correct form when talking with a pregnant friend: the immediate acquiescence to her wishes followed by concern for her health.]

Nicole: Yeah, I'm okay. I really should come. I mean, I want to. It's just that I don't know if I feel like it.

Me: That's okay. Whatever you like. It's totally an open invitation. If you show up, great. If you don't feel up to it, no hard feelings.

[Probably, but there are countless people I know who are currently pregnant and after months and months of pregnancy discussion, I frankly can't care to keep track. Moreover, I've got guests coming over in twenty minutes!!!]

[As Nicole talks, I straighten up the bathroom bathroom, finish up with the dishes, set out the appetizers and pour myself a glass of wine. Mid sip, as I'm contemplating whether ginger-scented candles are appropriate for a spring dinner party I begin to realize that Nicole has stopped speaking. It's a silence that indicates my dear friend has stopped her blah blah blahing and is waiting for me to respond. But I really haven't been listening and now have NO IDEA what she's talking about! I grapple in panic for a response and decide to just repeat the last words I heard.]

Me: Who's Braxton Hicks?

Nicole: The contraction? Like I just said, it's called a Braxton Hicks.

Right! Of course!

Me: So, now you're naming your contractions?

Nicole: Funny.

Me: Will you name one after me?

Nicole: No, I'm naming them all after my husband.

Me: Fair enough. But you're feeling okay, right? You're just tired?

Nicole: I'm fine. [Big dramatic pregnancy sigh.] It's just that nothing fits. I feel like a house. Even my vagina is huge.

Me: Um. . .

[Her WHAT is WHAT?! If I weren't so stunned I'd be spitting Merlot, but I'm frozen in place, suddenly very aware of my own, apparently not very large, vagina.]

Nicole: It's so swollen, it doesn't even look like mine anymore.

Me: Oh. My. God.

Nicole: Yeah, you know how it usually fits in your underwear?

Me: (nervously) Uh. . .huh.

Nicole: Mine doesn't. It's so big, it's completely unrecognizable.

[All rules about being kind, solicitous, understanding, sympathetic go out the window, because now she's just saying this stuff to freak me out.]

Me: OHMYGOSH, Nicole. You must go buy bigger panties and stop talking about this. Right now! I can't help it. . . I'm picturing your vagina with one of those Nike pump attachment thingies and a big fake nose and eyeglasses and I'm just a little more than disturbed. And frankly, for the record, I don't know that even if I had to, I could pick mine out of a lineup.

Nicole: Don't be ridiculous? It's all perfectly normal. It will happen to you, too.

Me: No, no it certainly will not, because now I'll be adopting, thankyouverymuch. There are tons of needy kids out there and my vagina need not swell to care for them.

Nicole: You say that now. Just wait.

Me: Right. Enough. Whatever you say, dearie. Listen, if you and your vagina can fit out your front door and squeeze into your car, you should come over tonight. I'll put a chair in the freezer for you, just in case.